Cezanne, The Card Players , 1895 The preparation of supper meal took two minutes to my dad. The recipe? You drop a deer steak in a frying pan *, you return it after one minute you wait at least as much before serving.
Meanwhile j'égouttais rice, which I had taken care to choose in free version rather than its box-bag cooking. "It is Christmas, anyway."
We sat on either side of the kitchen table.
- You've already tasted the wine?
- I checked it is not corked.
I blanched. No, a Cote Rotie 2003 has no right to be spoiled: this is contrary to all laws of good evening and the ethics of the exorbitant price.
- So?
- No.
- Phew. We
piquâmes our plates and we délectâmes the tender flesh of this beast that Bambi probably somewhere crying. From time to time I ventured in a sentence out of context introductory. In those moments, my father stopped chewing his net to better hear me. I felt like saying serious things all the time. When no reply, I knew it was.
- It's jolly good, the side-roasted, I never drank.
- This wine grater.
- And that's when it grates?
- That he has a lot of tannin. Nothing to do with Beaujolais.
My father pointed to a movement of the head which sat cubi end of the table.
2003, he continued, is the year of the heatwave.
- Oh wait! I remember I went to Mexico ... And uh, it's beneficial, a heat wave, for a wine?
- For him yes.
This was the second relief during the meal. When I bring something to my father, he not only must he likes it, but whether I have the absolute certainty. But then my dad does not always respond to questions that concern him too closely. Then I asked about his tastes in a roundabout way, pretending to look for a light to his legendary scientific rigor.
- I wonder why champagne is so expensive. I really prefer a good red! You know why you?
- No, I never understood.
I jolly well done to choose the wine.
- You know? Francoise's father died in exactly the same as mom.
My father continued his illico chewing. He seemed intently observing a point whose abscissa and ordinate were between the neck of the bottle and the handle of my fork.
You know? Lots of people think the sun revolves around the earth. It's crazy anyway. I really like this wine.
* (The vegetarian, I sympathize. You can replace the doe with a slice of feta, if the sear in a hot oil to fry.)
Meanwhile j'égouttais rice, which I had taken care to choose in free version rather than its box-bag cooking. "It is Christmas, anyway."
We sat on either side of the kitchen table.
- You've already tasted the wine?
- I checked it is not corked.
I blanched. No, a Cote Rotie 2003 has no right to be spoiled: this is contrary to all laws of good evening and the ethics of the exorbitant price.
- So?
- No.
- Phew. We
piquâmes our plates and we délectâmes the tender flesh of this beast that Bambi probably somewhere crying. From time to time I ventured in a sentence out of context introductory. In those moments, my father stopped chewing his net to better hear me. I felt like saying serious things all the time. When no reply, I knew it was.
- It's jolly good, the side-roasted, I never drank.
- This wine grater.
- And that's when it grates?
- That he has a lot of tannin. Nothing to do with Beaujolais.
My father pointed to a movement of the head which sat cubi end of the table.
2003, he continued, is the year of the heatwave.
- Oh wait! I remember I went to Mexico ... And uh, it's beneficial, a heat wave, for a wine?
- For him yes.
This was the second relief during the meal. When I bring something to my father, he not only must he likes it, but whether I have the absolute certainty. But then my dad does not always respond to questions that concern him too closely. Then I asked about his tastes in a roundabout way, pretending to look for a light to his legendary scientific rigor.
- I wonder why champagne is so expensive. I really prefer a good red! You know why you?
- No, I never understood.
I jolly well done to choose the wine.
- You know? Francoise's father died in exactly the same as mom.
My father continued his illico chewing. He seemed intently observing a point whose abscissa and ordinate were between the neck of the bottle and the handle of my fork.
You know? Lots of people think the sun revolves around the earth. It's crazy anyway. I really like this wine.
* (The vegetarian, I sympathize. You can replace the doe with a slice of feta, if the sear in a hot oil to fry.)
